


Room 104, Choker

by little_coffins



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Reflection, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_coffins/pseuds/little_coffins
Summary: Even with the choker on, it always serves as a reminder to his shortcomings in life.(This is my own version of JTK and shit, it's called Room 104. Info will be in the notes.)
Kudos: 7





	Room 104, Choker

**Author's Note:**

> The characters involved and a remade version of Jeff The Killer and Liu, fondly name Liu and Jeff Foster.  
> To better visualize the characters involved, here are some images drawn for me by wonderful artists.  
> Liu:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/mio-m3/art/Commission-Liu-821192644  
> https://www.deviantart.com/oryouohagida/art/Liu-Foster-OC-739011692
> 
> Jeff:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/carassiusvigorous/art/Jeffrey-792129501

Liu wore a choker.

Once he'd... Died? Not died? Died then un-died? Nice and simple, let's go with died.

Once Liu had died, that big, ugly unendingly bruised scar had remained, white surrounded my molten blues and purples across his throat.

At first, he tried turtle necks, but god, long thick sweater in the sweltering heat of summer? It was a no go. Than, he tried a scarf, the one Jeff had given him, long and striped with a grayish blue, but again, it was too damn hot to wear something so heavy in this horrid weather.

Then, he found a choker, it was longer, covered a good six centimeters of his throat, was grey lined with a thicker black outing, and a grey plastic gem. Cheap, cheap and shitty, but it worked, it allowed him to dress mostly like he usually did during summer, while simultaneously hiding that big, ugly, painful scar.

It made the memory of getting it less raw, made it less painful. He wasn't... Happy about the choker, but he was slightly pleased. Slightly. Slightly is a very key word in this situation, because no matter how well he hid it, he would always look in the mirror and see what covered it, what covered the memory of that blade, serrated at the top for sawing limbs at the joints, and sharpened obsessively to be a sharp as can be.

They way he'd strangled him before he pulled the knife, savoring the gasps and wheezes Liu provided as his nails gouged his arms in an attempted at getting him off.

It reminded him of his mother, the quiet conversations they'd had, the quiet _'_ _мама_ _,_ _когда_ будет они _остановятся_ _?'_ As Dad- no, Marvin- and Jeff fought.

It reminded him of the bisected bodies of those women. The corpses pushed beneath hotel beds and bath tubs, half nude and already beginning to fester in the summer heat.

It reminded him of locking himself in the bathroom as he listened to sex gradually turn to violence, violence turn to a cold silence that caused his chest to lock and twist like Jeff had shoved his hand between his ribs and squeezed the organ that pumped the blood throughout his body, squeezed it like he'd squeezed his neck and stolen his breath.

It reminded him of the hysterical tears as bodies stood above him, reminded him and trying to press his face into the stinky mattress to suffocate on the greasy torn fabric holding the stuffing and springs in, only to have his head tugged back up by his stupid, stupid stupid _stupid!_ long hair.

It reminded him of the time him and Jeff snuck out to the shed with stolen booze, drinking late into the night only to return to his screaming father and weeping mother, empty bottle in hand in one moment and smashed over Jeff's head in the next.

It reminded him of the exchange of money between his mother and another and the next hour spent in their company, alone in the only room the screaming outside couldn't reach inside. It went both ways.

That reminder would always remain, loud and obvious and painful, right there and in his face everytime he looked in the mirror or went to run the kinks from his neck. It never disappeared and never would, it made a sense of alarm boil over in his stomach, fight or flight activating and fingers smoldering, burning whatever was previously in his grasp while he stared or felt or existed whenever he acknowledged it.

It made him shudder and shake, duck into the nearest restroom to run his hands beneath water, praying the steam that rose from his smoldering fingers would be enough to suffocate him, but knowing that was impossible and he was stupid for even thinking about it being a possibility, _Liu you know better than this,_ _I_ _rely on you. Think better. Think._

The idea that he'd have this mark would forever frighten him, send his stomach plummeting to his feet, but he isn't stupid. He knows that he needs to figure this shit out. _It's been_ _thirty years idiot, you haven't physically changed with that stupid, pliable, weak kid body and neither will the_ _marks_ _left._

None of them will go.

He knows this.

But sometimes... sometimes he hopes.

Perhaps that hope was foolish- actually it was, completely and utterly foolish in every way, but still, that's life and sue him for being a little hopeful on occasion, however misguided it may be.

So, until the God he stopped believing in at thirteen answered his prayer, he'd hold out that dumb misguided hope that one day he'd wake up unblemished with a beating heart and his mother to brush his hair in the morning for him, for his brother to show him how to fiddle with that new camera he managed to save up for after subtly pawning his father's things, to watch quietly from a door way as his father slept on the couch, not peaceful in anyway but completely normal and average in his life.

He'd hope even if hoping itself was hopeless.


End file.
